OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Mephistophelian Whistlerian Butterfly "On the Pounce" at Antwerp.

"The Gentle Art of making Enemies, as pleasantly exemplified in many instances," &c., &c. (for full title see the book itself) is, whatever "Messieurs les Ennemis" may think of it, a work of rare humour. Of course you must first of all be interested in King James and his subjects,—his principal subject being himself, (and lucky the man who can command himself)—and you must wish to know the story of his rights and wrongs; then this interest and desire being taken for granted, the book of the butterfly is a thing of beauty and a joy for now and ever. The heads are epigrammatic and the tails sprightly, and both eminently characteristic, for the heads tell their own tales, and the tails in tadpolian scheme are the outcome of the heads. Most of the waggery is in these tailpieces, which, one and all of them, represent the real Whistlerian spirit, "the Familiar" of Etcher James, that is the Demoniacal Butterfly "in various aspics," as Mrs. Malaprop might say. Does the Butterfly's Master address "Messieurs les Ennemis," the Familiar Spirit is all politeness, with head down and wings outstretched saluting before coming to "on guard." Does Master "rid himself of the friendship of the many?"—the little Demon shakes a reef out of his tail and flies upwards, to return after a short flight of fancy. On occasions when Master has been reflecting comically and satirically on some of his attackers, or on his detractors, the volatile Imp literally shakes his sides with uncontrollable laughter, and can't stand upright for very mirth. The famous "Ten o'clock" which has been immortalised by Mr. Punch as the "Ten-and-sixpenny o'clock," in consequence of the tickets being half-a-guinea apiece, is here reprinted. Prospero Whistler packs up his bag of tricks, buries his wand, makes his bow with a little speech at a testimonial dinner given to him by his friends, and the Familiar Demon Butterfly, free at last, darts into space, leaves "Finis" below,—then, you turn over the page, all is blank,—Magician and Familiar have vanished!

David Stott, not of Oldham, but of Oxford Street, publishes dainty little pocket volumes, and here is one yclept Essays or Counsels of Francis Bacon. "Put it in the bag!" says the Baron, "and let it be my travelling companion, so that, whenever I want refreshment I may feed on Bacon, that many-sided philosopher." It is a wonderfully handy volume, tastefully and substantially bound, and its type of the very clearest. Much-occupied men, who can only snatch here a moment and there a moment for reading, ought to be grateful to the inventors and the publishers of all handy books, meaning, says the Baron, books which are really handy, and which, without destroying the natural elegance of your figure or the set of your garments, you can carry comfortably and imperceptibly in your tail coat pocket.

Notes from the News. By James Payn. (Chatto and Windus.) Notes on passing events of all sorts, spiced with capital stories, which will indeed be a big capital to be drawn upon by the dining-out raconteur,—the only thing against his present success being that most persons will have read these stories in The Illustrated London News or in this volume. It is a book for the weary work-all-day man to dip into, and to come out of it again refreshed. When in doubt as to what light reading to take up, the Baron advises, "Take Payn's."

Baron de Book-Worms.

P.S.—My faithful "Co." has been revelling in the Summer Holiday Number of All The Year Round, which consists of a complete story entitled, A Mist of Error, by Mary Angela Dickens. The authoress is the granddaughter of the great novelist, and the daughter of his son, the most popular of editors, and the best of good fellows. My "Co." reports, that the novelette is full of promise, and is a proof that literary genius is hereditary. Interesting from the first page to the last, A Mist of Error, in spite of its title, is never suggestive of a fog. My faithful "Co." is also delighted with Men of the Time Birthday Book, compiled by Mr. J. F. Boyes, F.S.A.—a charming little Volume that everyone will be proud to possess. He prophesies that it will be one of the most popular of Birthday Books, and congratulates its compiler on the production of a work of distinct historical value.

A GREAT GUNN.

[Gunn, the great Notts' Batsman, playing for the Players of England against the Australians at Lords, on June 19 and 20, made 228 runs, the highest individual score ever made in this country against the Australians.]

ROBERT AT THE LEATHERSELLERS'.

We had been so preshus busy at "the Grand Hotel" lately, that I hadn't seen werry much of my deer old Citty, but larst week I was arsked for to go and offishyate there at the jolly Leathersellers Company's Grand Dinner, as they was about to have a very distangy Party including one of our most sellybrated Hartist's, who's that poplar that ewerybody calls him 'Arry instead of 'Enery, as must in course have been the name as his godmothers and godfathers gav him when he was quite young and had his fust taste of a cold Bath, and most probberbly didn't like it.

So I went accordingly, and a werry scrumpshus Bankwet they had, includin them trewly Royal luxeries '80 Shampane and '47 Port! Ah! what a thing it must be to be a Royal or a Nobel persson, and to live on all the Fat of the Land, and wash it all down with nothink yunger than '80 shampain and '47 Port! And no matter where you gos, or weather it's to lay down a Fust Stone, or to Hopen a Hexibishun, or to take a Chair at a nobel Charity Dinner, there it is all reddy for you, and a hole crowd of Peeple a watching you a eating and a drinking of 'em, and a thanking you artily for taking the trubble of doing so! Ah! I sumtimes werrily beleeves as that my nateral tastes tells me as I was horiginally hintended for sum such useful life myself!

Well, arter the Bankwet of course we had all the reglar gushing speeches, and werry bewtifool but rather lengthy they was, but presently a sumthink appened as more estonished me praps than anythink as has appened to me for some time past.

The hartistick and poplar Gent as ewerybody calls Arry Furnace was called upon to return thanks for Hart, when to my intense estonishment, and ewerybody else's emusement, he acshally said as how as his frend "Robert," seeing how garstly pale he turned when he was told wot he wood have to do, had writ down for him 6 lines of most bewtifool Poetry, which he at wunce proceeded to recite, and sat down amid enthusiastick cheers and shouts of larfter! Seeing my look of puzzled surprise, he kindly turned round to me and said, "Look here, Robert, as I've rather taken a libberty with your honnerd name, I'll repay you by taking another with your well-known features," and borrowing a bewtifool pencil of me, that I had bort the day before for a penny, he acshally sketched three likenesses of me in his Book of the Songs, and giving it to me, said, with his merry laugh. "There, I hope that will console you for my bit of harmless fun;" and from what I was offered for my three sketches when I showed 'em about, after he was gone, I thinks, that upon the whole, I got a werry good share of the larf on my own side of the mouth.

Robert.

TRYING POSITION OF AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.

He determines to try the Automatic Photographing Machine, the Station being empty. To his dismay a Crowd has gathered, and watches the Operation.